If you go beyond the precipice of what you consider to be an appropriate amount of pleating and start swimming in the pool of knife, box, accordion and plissé pleats, you enter a world of unadulterated bliss.

It’s an old world of Dalí-like imagination, Chaplinesque shenanigans, and Hepburnish gusto; a world that has little choice but to double-take and mutter things like, “Dear God, who is that charming little darling in the pleated collar and why don’t I know her?”

Hands in your pockets, twirling dramatically in your accordion plumage, you respond with a playfully arched eyebrow and a coy shrug of your shoulders.